


A House Built

by sunflowerwonder



Series: A House Built, and Other Royal Fuckups [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Derse & Prospit, Infatuation, M/M, Precarious Negotiation, Prince Dirk, Seduction, royal au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 03:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6548650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerwonder/pseuds/sunflowerwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Prospitian hero who seduced a foreign prince into sending his country resources.</p><p>Certainly one for the history books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A House Built

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for following this account for so many years. I really appreciate every kudos and comment you all have left for me. I have had such a lovely time in the Homestuck fandom and I really feel I would not have improved as a writer without it.
> 
> This was originally a countdown-to-the-final-upd8 fic on my [blog](http://dirkar.tumblr.com/post/142760714216/a-house-built-dirkjake-royal-au-part-final). It is now being posted here, in its entirety.
> 
> Thanks again, and happy final 4/13.

“You’re going to save the kingdom!” Jane says with a grin you haven’t seen in months, dancing around the quarters provided to you by the Dersian court. The soft click of her yellow slippers and the twirl of her golden skirts reminds you of the way she used to prance around the castle ballroom when you were younger. It’s a strange yet cheerful sight. You forgot the last time your dear cousin, now almost queen, dared to be childish.

“Jake English you are the champion of Prospit.”

Her words are those that you’ve been waiting to hear your entire life. Your prospects as prince were particularly underwhelming in a kingdom already marked for financial downfall, so you never reasonably thought you’d hear them at all.

“Nothing is set in stone,” you say, voice teetering on a wary edge. “He hasn’t yet agreed to help us.”

Jane shakes her head, her grin still consistent across her face. “You’re not looking at this objectively,” she chides. “I saw his face. The way you asked him to dance–the hand you slid across his torso on the spin–The way you held his jaw and whispered your attraction to him–” She stills herself, composing her posture. “Goodness, I’m getting a little too flushed with all this excitement. The point is he’s  _yours_ , Jake. I saw it in the way he was looking at you.”

You feel a bit sick to your stomach at the remembrance of it all.

“The Prospitian hero who seduced a foreign prince into sending his country resources. Certainly one for the history books,” you mumble, disappointed in yourself. You’d always wanted to be the champion of your struggling country–its golden fields constantly terrorized by the outlying Alternian strongholds–but you didn’t want to have your name sewn into tapestries for… this.

“Relationships have been built on less. It doesn’t matter how we’re remembered as long as we get the kingdom back on its feet,” Jane affirms you. “Prospitians aren’t warriors, Jake. At least not anymore. We’re peacemakers. We have to makes sacrifices for the sake of negotiation.”

You shift where you sit on your silken, gaudy, purple bed and stare across the pattern making up the polished floors. They are a dull silver color that fails to cast any sort of reflection from the castle’s dim lighting. For being so lavish, Dersian decor was uncomfortably cold.

“He invited me to his quarters,” you say, softly.

Jane pauses. Gauging your expression. “And this is… Unfortunate?”

“Not sure how I feel on the matter, frankly.” You shrug. “I reckon it’ll make him that much more attached to me.”

“You’re being very brave,” Jane says. “I wouldn’t know what I’d do without you, Jake. It’s terrifying being the crown princess of a failed kingdom. But you, you’re going to save it.”

“I’ve never–” you flush. “You know I’ve never–and certainly not with a man–”

Jane stalls mid-spin, stumbling slightly before regaining her posture with the speed of typical royal fashion.

“Oh,” she says. Realization spreading across her face. Her cheeks redden, innocent outlook fading.

“Did you honestly think he was inviting me for tea?” you joke.

“They’re just so… So _salacious_ here.” Her comment echoes without a reply from you. When the silence grows awkward she attempts to stuff it. “Really now. They act all formal and dashing but they’re such promiscuous little devils under all the satin layers and silk linings and purple–purple–frills. The Prince’s own sister kept refilling my wine cup this evening like I was a common tavern maid she wanted to loosen out of a bodice.”

“Maybe you should sleep with her for the money then,” you say offhandedly. A hint of bitterness sits foreign on your tongue.

Jane freezes. Her hands form fists in her skirts, clutching them tightly. Uncomfortably.

“Jake. You know if he was interested in me I would be doing the same.”

You don’t doubt it.

The thought scares you, really. Some gentlemanly notion inside your head reckons it’s better this way. You’ll take a blade for the metaphorical team. That is if the team is your entire kingdom and the blade is sleeping with Dersian royalty for gold and military assistance.

“The Prince is rather taken with you,” Jane comments, her sweet tone tainted by hesitance and an awkward conversational atmosphere.

You fall back onto your provided bed, the violet sheets puffing up around you from the impact.

“He does have peculiar tastes, doesn’t he,” you comment dully.

Even if he didn’t, you would fall by the handle of your own sword before you let your own cousin and future Queen whore herself out.

Your name is Jake English, and you are the hero.

-

Jane helps you dress. The act is far above her standing as Crown Princess, but you brought only a few servants along and she has always had a fondness for doting on you.

Your clothes are colored in the royal Prospitian gold but fitted in the style of Derse. Tightly fitting sleeves and high jacket collars threaten to restrict your airflow as Jane does up yet another row of buttons. It’s torturous, and made even more ridiculous by the irony that you were getting dressed up only to inevitably be dressed down. You’re frustrated and embarrassed, but you let her lace those emotions up with every new fashionable layer. After all, looking dignified was never the same as having dignity.

When Jane finishes you can hardly breathe but your waist looks slim and your shoulders look broad, a small testament to Dersian fashion considering your usual unremarkable frame.

After you nod in confirmation of your appearance, Jane moves to pin your accolades on you. It’s a simple golden pendant adorned with two wings of hope–the standard symbol of the future Queen’s right hand and second in line to the throne. She opens the clasp and secures it to the breast of your jacket without fanfare. There’s been nothing but silence between you during the whole affair. An unspoken somberness hangs in the air, but it’s not threatening. Only solemn.

“Thank you,” Jane says, quietly.

Jane has never been one to apologize, but you think this might be the closest she’s ever come.

-

Your steps echo over the stone corridor as you walk towards your fate. It’s an internal hallway with no windows or courtyards in sight, making you feel as if you’ve somehow found your way underground.

Your escort is an angry looking fellow with a single, deeply set eye and a knife at his waist. His complexion is as pallid as the rest of the country’s skin, glowing a grey-white against the candlelight.

It scared you, really. You had told the prince his skin looked like the moon, but in honesty the way it stretched across high cheekbones and strong jawline looked frightfully alien. The people of Prospit were varied, sun-warmed, and always seemed to be flushed with some sort of emotion. By comparison the residents of Derse looked like an uncaring death.

“Get your head out of your ass. We’re here.”

Not to mention their horrible rudeness.

The man waves towards a lavishly carved entryway and promptly stalks off. You stand abandoned in front of two great wooden doors. It’s strange to see a natural substance amidst all the stonework, though even the calming coolness of wood against your palm does little to ease your nerves.

You knock twice, and pray he doesn’t hear you.

The door opens anyway. Although it slips only a crack and to seemingly nothing. You blink at the empty view leading to some sort of drawing room–as purple and densely decorated as the rest of the castle. However, a scuffling prompts you to shift your gaze downwards.

Red eyes stare up into your own, striking against the pale skin surrounding them. Their gaze prickles at your body, across the back of your neck, as if seeing right through you. The boy is unnerving for being all of ten years old. Yet within his blank expression you see traces of relation to the Prince.

“Hello,” you say, hesitantly.

“I’m sorry about your grandmother,” the boy greets back.

“What?”

“Your grandmother,” he states. “She was burned alive, wasn’t she?”

He steps aside, leaving the door ajar and you frozen in shock.

“Dave, you and your death-thing are scaring Dirk’s present,” another voice chimes in. It resounds from inside the room, and you slide the door open further and take a few cautious steps forward for a better view.

“Roxy told us not to call him that,” the boy–Dave, apparently–hisses. He skips ahead of you to speak to a girl almost his identical in age and appearance, her equally small body dwarfed by the cushioned chair she sits on.

“Roxy also told us not to scare him,” she says.

“She said not to call him ‘Dirk’s present’ first!” Dave says. His cheeks puff out in frustration, like Jane’s would when you were barely a young scamp. “It’s objectiveicashen.”

“Objectification.”

“That’s what I said! So stop it!”

“It’s the truth though,” the girl states, taking a dainty sip from her teacup. “He’s a gift. Dressed up and dropped off. I saw it.”

“Yeah, well,” Dave stumbles over his words. “That doesn’t matter. Roxy said–”

“You two. Out,” a familiar voice barks. Your attention is drawn to the right of the girl, where the Prince of Derse sits casually upon his own large chair. He doesn’t look up from the strange game currently capturing his attention, and instead places a chess piece down on a checkered cube seemingly suspended in midair. His posture is relaxed but his tone and tight frown are enough to send the younger boy reeling to grab his things.

“But we haven’t finished our game yet, Dirk,” the girl says, refusing to set down her tea.

“Another time, Princess,” he replies.

Her face scrunches up in the most childish of manners. “But Dirk–”

“Another time, Rose,” The Prince repeats, sternly.

She huffs, setting her drink down with a clatter and ruffling her skirts as she stands.

“One day we will actually finish one of these games,” she states. It’s strange to hear such a commanding voice coming from a child.

“Certainly,” Dirk replies. “But do tell me, Rose. Did I win?”

She–Rose, Rose, what a pretty name for a sallow girl–gives the checkered cube a death glare not unlike the one Dave had given you.

“I would have taken your king in seven moves.”

“'Atta girl.”

“Don’t act so surprised,” Rose replies before turning on her heels and stalking towards the door, shooting a look at you that seems to echo a fear that she knows something you don’t. Dave scampers to attention and falls in step behind her. He also casts a single glance back to you, but when you catch his eye he jumps and quickly slips out the door.

“Twins,” Dirk states with an undertone of exasperation, as if that’s anything approximating an explanation for what just transpired. “I’ve got one that dreams about death and another that sees the future. Ridiculous to keep track of.”

“They are… Gifted,” you manage to reply, hoping you don’t sound too slow on the compliment uptake.

“That’s one way to slice it.”

There’s a few soft clicks as the Prince begins resetting his game pieces back to their original placements. There are other finely made games littering the open drawing room, but none quite as impressive as the floating cube. Another piece settles back into position and you squirm in the silence.

“Are they… Are they yours?”

“God no,” he snorts. “They’re my brother and sister.”

“Oh,” you reply, less than eloquently.

He finishes his work, a final pawn falling back into row.

“Good evening, by the by.” the Prince greets officially, finally. He looks up from his chessboard now, eyes dragging over your body with a glimmer of curiosity. “You look nice.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” You take a breath, urging your discomforted energy into attractiveness. The Prince, despite his casual demeanor, seems to have gotten dressed up himself. “If I may have the gusto to say so, you look rather handsome yourself.”

The corners of his mouth quirk upwards. They form the ghost of a smile that urges you to relax.

“You’re charming,” he says.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“You can call me Dirk.”

His words bare well for your country’s future, and you grin at him.

“Thank you, Dirk.”

He stands, and you’re reminded of the intimidating height you’d had to dance with just that evening. You briefly wonder what it will be like laying with him. If he will ask you to kiss him. If he will notice your utter lack of experience after all that shameless flirting. If he will call you on your charade when you enter the climax of it all.

He strides over to you with a practiced gait. You’ve noticed everything about him feels deliberate, sturdy, and in control. Even the hand settling on your lower back seems sure of itself.

“Want to take a walk?” he asks, chin hovering over your shoulder and mouth close to your ear. It’s seductive in the most terrifying of ways. Your focus snaps to an open archway on a far side of the room, leading to what you can only assume is a bedroom. Where could he possibly taking you that wasn’t the intimacy of his own quarters?

“A walk?” you ask, unsure.

“Yes,” he says. “If that is to your liking?”

Your nerves spike, but you nod your head. “That sounds positively lovely.”

His expression perks up at this, his body relaxing.

“Wonderful. Let me grab my cloak.”

-

He grabs a cloak for you too, the gentleman, and drapes it over your shoulders with a muted ruffle of fabric before you depart.

The deep midnight velvet weighs heavy on your shoulders as you silently stride behind him, watching your feet advance across hundreds of stone bricks as you again wander through the cavelike hallways of the Dersian royal castle.

You don’t know the palace well enough to have even the remotest clue where you’re going. You try and keep track of the directions anyway. Dirk does not speak to you. Even though you reckon you should, you don’t speak to him either.

He only touches you once more. It’s the slightest graze of his fingers on your shoulder, urging you to stop before descending down a staircase that lies in front of you. You startle to a halt, wide-eyed as you anticipate what he wants from you.

“Watch your step,” he says softly, before offering to hold your cloak so you don’t trip. It’s frightfully kind, and even a bit doting. You tell him that you can lift your own cloak, but thank you, and bunch the dark material up in the crook of your right elbow before tapping your heels down the cold, stone steps.

“The staircases can be quite dangerous here,” he comments, his words echoing back from the ceiling. He descends rapidly and with a practiced ease. It becomes apparent that he’s raced down these steps many times before. “Consider this a warning. While you’re staying with us, do watch your paces.”

“Of course,” you reply, glancing his way with a smile.

He overtakes you in speed, spinning on the balls of his feet to face up the steps once he reaches the ground below. He grins at you. His face carries a strange genuineness, like Jane looked on her eleventh birthday when she got her first tiara. Happy–but also strangely naive. The expression lures you closer, like you might have some semblance of power in this situation, like you are courting a respectable duchess the old fashioned way and not begging the crown prince of a rival kingdom to sleep with you.

Dirk holds out his hand to help you down the last few steps, and you take it. Feet safely on the ground, you let the fabric of your cloak drop. It swooshes back down over your legs with a startling rush but the prince’s face is only on you.

With a gentle grip you hold up his still extended hand and bring it slowly to your lips. You press a soft kiss against his knuckles–white from nerves or simply his skin tone, you’re unsure. His eyes never leave your mouth.

“Thank you for having me, Your Highness,” you say. You pray he can’t hear the nervous pounding of your heart or the anxiety prickling through your veins. He stares.

“Dirk,” he replies, though for the first time he sounds unsure, even a little overwhelmed.

“Dirk,” you correct. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“Yes,” he says, pulling his hand away. “I’m glad you could accompany Her Majesty of Prospit on her negotiative journey. I’ve…” He stalls when you offer him your arm. “…Greatly enjoyed your acquaintance.”

“Likewise,” you chime.

He takes your arm, the stiff material of his violet jacket brushing along your own. It loops in your extended elbow tightly, if a bit awkwardly. It makes you wonder how many lovers he’s lead like this. You wonder if there’s been any at all.

He leads you down another hallway, but this one spits you out into the fresh, chilled air of the growing night. The darkening sky seeps impossibly black above you, framed by the edges of four castle walls rising up around.

The courtyard is deathly silent. The trees are silhouetted against the dusk. There’s practically a small forest in the castle square, thick enough to remind you of the trees back home.

You take it all in for a second, breath heaving the fresh air with thankful lungs.

“It’s lovely,” you say, looking over to him.

“There’s a bench in the center,” Dirk says. “If you don’t mind, I thought we could talk.”

“Talk?”

“Yes,” Dirk replies. “Privacy is hard to come by in Derse. People have a way of digging up your secrets. Nasty press here, you see.” You do not see, but you can imagine. “It’s better someplace secluded. To talk, I mean.”

You nod in agreement. His arm drops from your side in order for him to step ahead a few paces. You watch his head swivel around the area, sharp eyes glancing around the courtyard and scouting the spaces between the dense trees. When he deems it clear, you find the glint of smile in the twilight and a hand outstretched towards you.

“Follow me.”

You grasp his palm in yours and find yourself being effortlessly guided through the thick woods. The shadowed, jagged bark of each tree places you on edge but The Prince winds through them like familiar friends. Each footstep he takes is easier than the last. The farther you wander into the forest the more his tension seems to ease. Yours only seems to rise.

When you reach the prophesied bench it catches you by surprise. It’s small and simple. Dark wood and iron with minimal flourishes. Nothing fit for a prince, yet when he settles down upon it you find it oddly suits him.

“Would you like to sit?” he asks. His hands allude to the spot beside him. His face is hopeful.

“With you?”

“Yes,” he says. “If that suits you.”

You grin. He seems pleased.

“I’d be honored.”

You settle upon the bench and find it comfortable enough. The Prince’s eyes process your every movement as if searching for meaning. It’s flattering at best, anxiety-inducing at worst. His focus threatens to pick at your little charade.

Your own attention lays misplaced on the bench itself. Your fingers trace small grooves carved into the wood. They resemble swirls, or the tentacles of an octopus. Endless etchings intertwined to form an incoherent but nonetheless mesmerizing pattern.

“I made it,” he tells you.

You compliment him on the craftsmanship.

“I used to come here when I was younger,” he says. Then stops short. You watch his body stiffen as if he’s said too much. You lean your head towards him, coaxing him to continue.

“Nightmares,” he continues, a bit quieter. “I got tired of sitting on the ground.”

“Ah,” you say, “I’ve heard such dreams are fairly common in Derse.”

“Yes,” Dirk says. He stills in his seat. His pale complexion beneath the lighting of the moon masquerades him as a statue.

“…Though I imagine you and Her Highness will return to Prospit long before they start to affect you,” he continues.

“I imagine so,” you reply.

“There are ways to sooth them, you know. Local remedies,” he says.

“Is there?”

“Yes. Alchemic mixes, natural compounds, Rose swears by a particular blend of tea–”

“It must be nice,” you say. “I’ve heard the dreams can get quite violent. Tentacles crawling up your neck, dreadful beasts whispering in your ear–”

“There are ways to avoid them,” Dirk repeats. His voice wavers. It pitches up at the end, cracking like a young page’s.

You stare at him.

“There are ways to counteract the effects, if you,” He stalls.

“If I?”

“If you,” he says, slow and deliberate, “…were to stay longer.”

The still of the forest sinks into your bones in the subsequent silence. You attempt to look through him but fail. His face is so honest. His mouth so innocent. His eyes so amber–as golden as the finery of your bedroom back home. The glint of familiar color sends a warmth through you.

Prospit. Your birthright. Reflecting in the eyes of a poor, dreadfully inexperienced Prince with a taste for male attention and no way to obtain it.

You dip your nose close to his. He does not meet your gaze.

“I’m flattered by your offer,” you say.

“But,” he tacks on for you. Bitter. As if he is expecting it.

“I already have a home, Your Highness.”

“Dirk,” he says, exasperated. Borderline desperate. “My name is–”

“Dirk,” you interrupt. “My home is a floundering mess. Our fields have been burned and our food is short. We have not raised an army in seven generations and have no means to defend ourselves from outlying territories.”

“That is hardly your fault,” Dirk says. “Blame your ancestors. They are the ones who built a kingdom on perishable wheat and precarious treaties. They are the ones who–”

“I am needed there.”

He immediately pulls back. You did not realize he had leaned so far forward in his sudden passion.

His side of the bench suddenly seems so far away.

“I’m holding negotiations with Her Highness come sunrise. I will see what Derse can spare.”

You need more than what Derse can spare. You need almost everything Derse has in order to scrape by.

“Dirk,” you say. He inhales a deep breath when you speak his name. “I–”

“Can I kiss you,” he interrupts.

You stare at him. A sore swallow slides dryly down your throat.

“May I kiss you,” he says, correcting himself. “Please.”

You don’t tell him that you were expecting to do more than that tonight. You don’t tell him you thought him easily seduced. You don’t tell him how hopeless he looked at the moment, clutching the fine material of his cloak in apprehension and unrequited feelings.

You don’t tell him you’re just as desperate, if for different reasons.

You lean forward, and press your lips to his.

It’s unexpectedly somber. A silent, pitiful affair drawn out by a low cry from the back of his throat. His hands grip the unruly strands of your hair and when you threaten to pull back they hold you to him.

“Stay,” he whispers against your lips. They’re not as soft as you expected from a royal. “If you feel the same of me, you’ll stay.”

You may have been a bit dense in your youth, but even the lowliest of fools can sense when they are given an ultimatum.

You do not tear away from him. Instead, you stare deeply into the wheat-gold of his eyes. They were clouded with infatuation. Jaded with desperation. With eagerness. With hope.

You were never meant to be a manipulator.

“I think…” you choke out, words caught in your throat. “I think I’d like to return to my quarters, now.”

With a stoic face, Dirk releases you.

-

Jane’s eyes are wide when Dirk places his offer on the table the following morning.

It’s a literal table with a large map of Derse and its border states carved in striking detail upon the surface. Dirk has littered it with chess pieces–pawns outlining bartered trade routes and a handful black, horse-shaped Knights designating the Dersian Calvary to be stationed around Prospitian borders. Scraps of parchment are strewn about, calculating percentages of Prospitian debts to be worried over when the lot of you were back on your feet.

A council of Derse advisors sit around Dirk’s side of the table. They grimly look from the offer–heavily generous towards your broke farming nation–to the price: three ships, a handful of trade routes, and _you_.

“Absolutely not.”

Jane’s shrill voice echoes against the negotiation room’s stonework. She reminds you of a mother boar you once stalked on a hunt, bristling in front of her vulnerable children.

You look to Dirk, his face impassive, but don’t say a word.

“You have my offer,” he states. His voice is stone cold. You have little idea how he could be the same man who kissed you under the murky visibility of moonlight. Who begged for your attention, your affection. Who laid his heart bare for you to consume, only to be abandoned.

You suppose, bitterly, that this was your comeuppance for leaving him in the courtyard.

“I don’t bargain with human lives,” Jane says. Her tone carries an air of finality. She will not let you go.

“And exactly what, dear princess, do you think armies are made of?” Dirk replies. He’s remarkably levelheaded for someone with such a positively batshit offer on the table.

Jane splutters. Her anger was rare but notorious in your kingdom. “What decent use does a Dersian prince have for a member of Prospitian royalty?”

Rose’s words echoed:

Present. Gift. Truth.

You were playing his heart to save your kingdom. Now he was forcing your hand to obtain reciprocation. It was the same delicate dance that had always existed between Prospit and Derse; the kingdoms of light and darkness, good and evil, locked in a stalemate. To think things had changed was foolish.

“I’ll do it.”

Everyone in the room turns to where you had been effectively ignored the entire conversation. You stare only at Dirk.

“Jake, don’t be ridiculous,” Jane scoffs. “I am not desperate enough to sell off my own cousin to–”

“Derse has been right generous with their offer.” You lock eyes with the prince and refuse to move. “It would be a token of good faith to offer up an ambassador.”

“Ambassador,” Dirk repeats. He mouths the word pointedly, as if tasting it.

“Jake,” Jane cries. Her hands grip your arm. You break eye contact with Dirk to face her.

“It’ll be quite alright,” you say. You nod, once, at her. It’s slow and deliberate.

She shakes her head, mouth forming an objection.

“Jake,” she repeats. “I refuse to let you–”

“I’ll be an ambassador,” you reply.

Her voice lowers to a harsh whisper. “ _If you think that’s all you’ll be–_ ”

“For Prospit,” you say. “I’d be anything.”

For the first sturdy truce between Derse and Prospit in history, it’s a surprisingly somber experience.

Hands are shaken. Papers are signed. Jane looks ashen throughout the affair. When the bulk of the newly hatched treaty is finished, she excuses herself to her rooms.

You answer questions. The current state of Prospit was something you were knowledgable in. You tell Dirk and his advisors of the most profitable lands taken from your kingdom, the direction of the attacks, the bulk of the foreigners’ numbers, and the coveted valleys destined for the next ambush. Dirk adjusts chess pieces accordingly. You avoid looking at the white knight he places next to the black queen. A pretty white stallion surrounded by enemy lands. It makes something deep in your chest ache, to see Prospit reduced to a chess board. To see you nothing but a captured pawn.

“I don’t love you,” you say suddenly. Right in front of the war table, the Dersian council, the servant boy who almost drops his wine pitcher. Your cheeks burn hot.

Dirk doesn’t react but his movements do freeze.

“Why Jake,” he says, finally, gesturing towards the measures of peace and protection in front of him. “Relationships have been built on far less.”

When you were young, your Grandmother taught you how to carefully shoot a gun. She told you that it was powerful but it wasn’t a plaything, and that if incorrectly used the backfire could surely kill your small form.

You toyed with the Prince of Derse’s heart. You deserve the bitter-tasting gunpowder hurtling towards your face.

-

“I was right,” Rose says. She stands to your left, her skirts a deep plum color with lavender accents.

“You’re a bright one,” you note.

She smiles at the compliment.

“Dirk always gets what he wants,” Dave says. He’s to your right. “I think the thought of you leaving made him freak out.”

“Oh?” you say, casually.

“Don’t…” Dave starts. “Don’t hold it against him. He’s good – I know you’ve seen him when he’s good.”

“Your elder brother has been very generous to my kingdom,” you say.

Rose laughs. It’s a sweet, melodic sound accompanied by a devious grin. “You should have come with a bow. All my presents do.”

“Shut up, Rose,” Dave says, face bunched up in defiance. He raises a hand and presses it into your significantly larger one. You look down at him in surprise.

“I really am sorry about your grandmother,” he mumbles.

You thank him, with a nod, and remove your hand from his in order to ruffle his hair. You decide you like the young Prince Dave. God know’s you’ll need a friend while you’re settled here.

Jane descends down the castle entry steps with a flat expression. She’s dressed in her most extravagant travel dress. The edge of her eyes are stained red behind her spectacles.

The path to her carriage is lined with all sorts of Dersian nobles and well-off uppers wishing to pay their respectful goodbyes. She curtsies to a few particularly highblooded ones, exchanges some simple goodbyes, and carries on down the walkway.

When she sees you, standing in line, dressed in fine purple, between the twin Dersian prince and princess, she falters.

You step from your designated spot and embrace her.

Her hands clasp behind your shoulders and her face presses deeply into the color of your jacket. Breathes it in, like the scent is a betrayal. You hold her close. She makes no move to let go.

“I will write to you,” you say.

She shakes her head against your chest.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says, voice hushed and fast. “We have options–”

You don’t.

“I want a grand old tapestry,” you murmur to her. Your voice is lighthearted but it doesn’t seem to sink in. “Please.”

“Oh, Jake,” she replies. “You’re the first ambassador to Derse. I’ll make sure you receive a whole hero’s mural.”

She pulls back from you but you clasp both her hands in yours. You pay little mind to the Dersian nobility watching your every movement.

“I will write,” you repeat.

She nods. Attempts a smile.

“Goodbye, Jake.”

You step back into line and all of a sudden _he’s_ there. The Prince. Your prince. He descends down the palace steps with a stoic expression. When he reaches Jane, he gives a minimal bow.

“Your Highness,” he says. “I hope you’ll find Derse’s assistance profitable for you in your time of need.”

“As I hope you’ll be respectable towards my ambassador.”

Jane does not glance at you again, but you know where her thoughts lie. Dirk, however, does look to you. Swallows.

“He’ll be treated as if he was native royalty, I can assure you.”

Dirk walks a respectable distance besides her, and the pair moves in unison towards the awaiting carriage. You can’t help but heave a deep, fearful breath at the sight of Jane’s head retreating. You did not know when you would see her again, and the thought was more terrifying than anything lurking in the Dersian castle.

To your left, Rose laughs.

“She’s not very composed for a queen,” Rose notes.

A hurt, bitter feeling rises in your heart.

“And you’re hardly any good at holding your tongue for a princess,” you say, instantly regretting it. You were not a ferocious sort. And certainly not to young girls.

The insult sails past her shoulder though, barely ruffling her hair.

“The two of you are just cousins,” she says. “And you’re surely capable, Jake, if a bit slow on the uprise. She acts as if she’s bestowed her first born upon us.”

“We’re only cousins in blood,” you reply, wishing she’d stop talking. “By all other means and matters, I’d consider her my dearest of siblings.”

There is a rustle of skirts from your left, and you swipe your head down to Rose composing herself from a slight loss in balance. For some reason, she’s gone oddly pale.

“ _Siblings,_ ” she repeats.

“Yes,” you say. “I assume you’re familiar with the concept.”

Her gaze drags to Dave, who is engaged in excited conversation with the Knight on his other side. Rose furls her brow. And for the first time you see a glimpse of empathy, even regret, cross her face.

“Don’t compare us to you,” she says. She is stiff in her posture. Her lips a small, childish pout.

Your voice is dry and tired. “Of course not.”

“I would never abandon my little brother as an offering to some foreign prince,” she huffs, as if offended. But it seems stretched. Justified. A line of worry is etched into her remarkably young face.

“You’ve played chess,” you reply. “Or some newfangled form of it. Surely you’re aware that sometimes sacrifices have to be made.”

“Not Dave,” she says. “Never Dave.”

Trumpets blare and you look a final time to the golden carriage hailing your crown princess and sister. There’s a click of horse hooves against the stone paves of Derse. A squeal of wheels starting to turn. Something aches in your chest as slowly, tentatively, Rose places her fingers in your hand.

“She’s served her kingdom well, sacrifices and all,” Rose says. “She’ll make a good queen.”

Rose does not strike you as the type of child who apologizes, and you briefly wonder if this is the closest she’s ever come.

-

You have gotten a haphazard layout of the castle by now, and after three wrong turns you manage to navigate your way back to your designated rooms without an escort. The quarters were now permanent. Littered about with Prospitian artifacts that looked far too out of place to be comforting. Jane had left a remarkable amount of her things here, in some effort to make it feel like home, but it hardly helped.

You haven’t even turned to close the door yet and your prince is _there_ again. As always. With silent footsteps and a tight, impassive frown.

“I’m afraid I’m feeling rather ill. I’d like to be excused for the evening,” you say to him. Your voice is empty. It sounds strange passing over your tongue. Dirk lingers in the arch of your doorway. “…If His Highness would grace me the luxury.”

“I want to apologize,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow and move to rest a hand on the heavy door.

“Hear me out,” he interrupts, his hand extending to place itself over your own. You don’t move a muscle.

“I’m not in love with you,” he says. States, as if it were a royal decree. “I know what you did. I know why you did it. I may be foolish enough to fall for the oldest play in the parchment roll, but I’m not that desperate.”

You nod, once, at him. But if he was looking for an apology from your end he would have to continue his quest elsewhere.

“But I am fond of you,” he says, softly. “And I want… I want to make this right…”

His words melt away when you lift his hand into yours and softly bring it to your lips. You bend your waist. Strands of thick black hair curtain your view. Your breath ghosts over his knuckles and you feel the heat rush to his face without needing to glance up to see it.

“I want to apologize,” he repeats.

You look up, and find yourself smiling. “If you wanted to make up for soiled ground you would have let me return to Prospit.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I know.”

A thumb, worn ragged from gun usage, traces over the skin of his hand. He has callouses too. A fighter, you think. At least you were equals on that front. You briefly muse what kind of weapon would suit him.

“You know?” Dirk seems perplexed, the light behind his eyes flickering in confusion, looking for an answer he–for once–does not know.

“I know why I am here,” you say.

Dirk’s cheeks darken more. “I’m not going to _touch you_ –”

“I’m here because I needed an army,” you say. “And you, as you’ve so clearly laid out in your terms, needed a companion.”

Dirk fails to comment.

“A fair trade, I think.” You drop his hand. “Dirk.”

Dirk looks a bit struck at the bluntness of it all. He pulls his hand back and rubs at it, as if burned.

“Is that all we are,” he says. His voice has lost it’s princely echo. He frowns. “Is that all we’re ever going to be?”

You think on this for a second. Trace the edge of the door with fingers that return to it.

“If you’ll allow me to quote you, Your Highness,” you say. “Relationships have been built on far less.”

You tell him you’ll see him at breakfast the following morning, and promptly shut the door.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Spark, A Flame, A Fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8118997) by [callmearcturus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/callmearcturus)




End file.
